


Tarantism (Working Title)

by Travellingthestars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Stripper!Lock (I guess?), Swing!Lock, Tagging for later chapters, Tap!Lock, ballet!lock, dance!lock, pole!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1217644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Travellingthestars/pseuds/Travellingthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Despite, or perhaps because of his evident distaste of the lower level medical staff which approached him, Sherlock waited for more than three hours before he was shown through to see a doctor, and at his first glimpse of sandy, unassuming blonde hair, he very nearly turned and left the hospital. The man he was faced with appeared to be a fool. Over tired, impossibly bored, completely ignorant of the admiring glances the porter shot him, he seemed to be no more than a well meaning, mildly dim witted bloke. Certainly below Sherlock’s meticulous standards- and he’d hate to consider the views of his brother on the matter. "</p>
<p>When Sherlock injures himself dancing, and is forced to go get checked out in the hospital, he meets a certain Doctor John Watson, and everything turns upside down- only this isn't a basic invert on the pole or a handstand against a door...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tarantism (Working Title)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nat_scribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nat_scribbles/gifts).



> So- Firstly, dedicated to my girlfriend/ beta Nat_scribbles, because this was written for her months ago and she drew me beautiful fan art and we talk about dance a fair bit, so...
> 
> Secondly, I've been doing pole dancing for a year or so now, and I'm so so in love with it, so hopefully I've not made any mistakes in terms of pole jargon. I did ballet when I was a kid, but never got on pointe. Basically, any stupid dance mistakes, feel free to point out, and I'll try to sort them. If anyone's interested in the pole side of things, I recommend you check out the Pole Dance Dictionary which you can get through a basic search on any search engine. 
> 
> Finally, I don't own any of the characters, they belong to ACD/ Moftiss, and I have no right to do what I'm doing with them, they'd probably hate me for it. 
> 
> Good? Good.

“... Looks sore.”

 

The piercing gaze which met the bland statement darkened minutely as a head covered in riotous black curls lifted.  “Which aspect of it,” There was a pause, whilst the dark haired man shifted slightly trying to better cushion his ankle on the chair it leant on, before continuing. “The sprained ankle- which isn’t broken, I assure you, my fibula and tibia are fully intact: I’m a dancer, not an idiot; or this wonderful array of bruises across my shoulders you appear to be admiring so fondly?”  

 

Blushing, the nurse swallowed, suitably cowed by the cold whiplash of Sherlock’s tone. “I apologise. I’ll find you a doctor, Sir. Just a moment.”  She shot him a slightly pained smile, and hurriedly trotted off, cheeks still painted scarlet and head bowed in embarrassment. Not that it mattered as Sherlock didn’t spare the woman another thought, preferring instead to roll his shoulders, circle his neck in slow 180s- a vague attempt to prevent the tension which was sure to follow the bruises. The trapezius muscle, he knew, would protest soon enough regardless, but he’d do what it took to ease the worst of it.

 

Despite, or perhaps because of his evident distaste of the lower level medical staff which approached him, Sherlock waited for more than three hours before he was shown through to see a doctor, and at his first glimpse of sandy, unassuming blonde hair, he very nearly turned and left the hospital. The man he was faced with appeared to be a fool. Over tired, impossibly bored, completely ignorant of the admiring glances the porter shot him, he seemed to be no more than a well meaning, mildly dim witted bloke. Certainly below Sherlock’s meticulous standards- and he’d hate to consider the views of his brother on the matter.

 

In fact, he was sure, if Mycroft were aware of his injuries, he would have been whisked towards a wonderfully prompt, perfectly clean, private clinic.

 

However, it was equally possible that his brother was fully in the know about the state Sherlock was in, and merely hadn’t considered it to be of equal importance to the dull political trivia he dealt with on a daily basis. It certainly wasn’t impossible, nor in the slightest surprising.

 

Withhold judgement, then, against his usual temperament. Regardless, the slow sinking ache of abandonment hung heavy in his stomach as he sat wearily on the examination table. The doctor approached unerringly, mindless of Sherlock’s inner turmoil. “Doctor Watson, I’ll be the one dealing with your injuries this evening, what seems to be the problem?” Sherlock’s eyes immediately narrowed.

 

“Oh, as a matter of fact, Doctor Watson, I believe I have a heart condition, cancer, psychosis, fatal lacerations and major concussion.” He scowled. “My leg. Blatantly. It’s merely sprained, I’m certain of it, I need nothing more than bindings and painkillers.”

 

John’s lips quirked into a tired semblance of a smile. “A joker, brilliant. Everything I need during the late shift.” The smile didn’t waver as he moved to gently probe at Sherlock’s ankle with latex covered fingers, despite the annoyance evident in the lines of his face and the tense set of his shoulders.

 

“I apologise for my tardiness in relation to my injuries. I’m sorry I couldn’t hurt myself at a more convenient hour for you.” He raised an eyebrow in return, at least able to appreciate the sarcasm- a language he spoke fluently and often. It was, in a way, his apology, and it seemed to work as John’s fingers continued to poke around the swollen lump of Sherlock’s ankle.

 

“Here?” When the blonde spoke, his words were soft, surprisingly caring, and Sherlock nodded gently, carefully toning down the cruelty in his voice.

 

“No, a bit-” He broke off, hissed out a pained breath. “Yes. There.”

 

“How did you do it, then?”

 

“Dancing.”

 

“Oh?” John’s brow raised, a comical replication of Sherlock’s earlier expression, but somehow questioning, rather than amused.

 

“You sound surprised.” Sherlock didn’t even blink as he spoke, fully anticipating the response and deeming it unworthy of his attention.

 

“A little. Most of our dancing injuries are girls; Pointe work gone wrong, bad splits, y’know, that kind of thing.” He shot the brunette a grin, tested the skin around Sherlock’s foot and calf.

 

“Ah. I assure you, my splits are impeccable and my Pointe work is flawless.”

 

“... I thought men didn’t dance on Pointe?” He looked up from his work, began to scribble on a clipboard, his doctor’s scrawl illegible to Sherlock’s keen eyes. He abandoned trying to read it after a moment, returned his focus to the conversation.

 

“They don’t.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a wry smile, beginning to answer the question which followed before it had even fully left John’s mouth.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it looked difficult.” He chuckled, rolled his shoulders again, pleased to find the ache there conspicuous in its current absence.

 

“Was it?”

 

“Yes.” Another pause broke the easy chatter for a moment, as John disposed of his gloves, washed his hands again, before depositing himself in a chair and wheeling his way over to his computer. Once there he began to type slowly, no more than two fingers hovering over the keyboard at any time, tapping out the details of Sherlock’s injury and skim reading his recent history.

 

“How, then? If not faulty Pointe work?” John murmured as he typed and read, the dull sound of the keys ceasing as he studied the text.

 

“Pole.”

 

“Sorry?” He glanced up as though he’d misheard, his face clearing once Sherlock repeated himself, a bored expression coating his features with distaste.

 

“Pole dancing.”

 

“What, y’mean-?” John stood to demonstrate, strutting around an imaginary pole, humming ‘All that Jazz’ and holding back his giggles, though the effort turned his face pink.

 

“Yes. Well- No. Not like that.” Even Sherlock couldn’t hold back the low rumble of his laugh.

 

“How did you do this, from that?” He gestured to Sherlock’s foot, then to his own form, content with the self deprecating nature of his joke.

 

“... You want a demonstration?” Sherlock’s face morphed from relaxed indifference into a subtle flirtatiousness, accompanied by a coy, knowing smirk.

 

“Ah... Uhm.” John blushed, fumbled for his words. “No. No, thanks.” That drew another laugh from the dark haired man, amused by the doctor’s discomfort. It wasn’t malicious, though, and he quickly softened his tone once more, explaining.

 

“I landed badly, is all, coming out of a shoulder mount.”

 

“A what?” John asked, his face contorting in confusion.

 

“A shoulder mount. It’s... No, I can’t explain, not in layman’s terms, in a way you’d understand.”

 

“It sounds... Complicated. More than I’d anticipated.” John’s lips quirked again, mild amusement and intrigue, and not a little admiration.

 

“It’s surprisingly simple. Physics, really. Some of it takes more coordination than you’d expect, but it’s not so bad. More simple than swing, for example. No lifting anybody or catching them. More difficult than ballet, flat foot. About equivalent to Pointe. I usually practice them together, actually, do pole en Pointe, but I can’t perform that way, so I was practicing the shoulder mount barefoot, misjudged the dismount, automatically came down as if on Pointe because that’s how I’m used to coming down from a dodgy trick, and...” He shrugged, and then looked mildly surprised at how easily words had flown from his mouth- and even more surprised when he realised he’d been gesturing, demonstrating the moves using his hands as best he could. He paused a moment, then murmured. “I should have probably broken my toes, or my foot, but... Caught myself, so...”

 

John nodded, smiled. “I see.”

 

Sherlock shot him an awkward smile in response, nodded along, “You do? That’s… Good.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tarantism (N): A psychological illness characterized by an extreme impulse to dance, prevalent in southern Italy from the 15th to the 17th century, and widely believed at the time to be caused by the bite of a tarantula. 
> 
> Tarantism (N): Overcoming melancholy by dancing; the uncontrollable urge to dance.


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